Ironic
by loveofwrittenword
Summary: One minute light chatter and bubbly champagne makes you feel fuzzy inside, and the next, you look over your shoulder and see someone who makes everything disappear and the noise become quiet. And for one moment, you see the man of your dreams. Yet, things never are what they seem. But it doesn't stop the heart from wanting. AH/AU.
1. Ironic

Disclaimer: S. Meyer owns. No copyright infringement is meant.

**Ironic**

_"And isn't it ironic, don't you think . . . A little too ironic, and yeah, I really do think."_ —_Alanis Morissette_

**.**

Bella's POV

**.**

My hands shake as I give my coat to the attendant. Only two weeks I've been a new team member and already I'm wining and dining at some fancy banquet. Well, not only me, but everyone who seems to work for them.

I smooth down the wrinkles in my requisite black dress while begging my feet not to trip over anything. Dressing up is never my idea of fun, but I know it comes with the territory of working at such a prestigious law firm.

Cullen, Hale & McCarthy is one of the top – if not the most – sought after firms for Business Law. Million dollar deals are ironed and worked out in their offices and board rooms. Quite intimidating to a small town girl from Forks.

Some would think, _how such an awkward girl could get such an esteemed position_; and I guess it really comes down to who you know.

Having a father as a long-time friend of a partner also helps. That doesn't meant I don't carry my weight. One has to constantly prove oneself at such a high-powered firm.

Being a paralegal may not seem like the most exciting of jobs, but it pays the bills and keeps the top echelon of lawyers from having to do the grunt work. It is often joked: behind every good lawyer is an even better paralegal. _Or so we tell ourselves_.

As I step into the Salon ball room and allow my eyes to take in its beauty, I have to remind myself this is real and I'm actually here. Ironically the classic line, "_we're not in Kansas anymore_," flashes in my mind. I wonder if everyone has such a moment in their lives.

Glorious views of the Chicago skyline meet my eyes. All the drapes are pulled back, affording the beauty of the city to mingle with each guest.

The white-cloth tiered chandeliers add soft ambient lighting to an already overwhelming scene. Tables with fine silk clothes, and even more exquisite flower arrangements, are centered around the room, giving people a place to set their drinks down and mingle.

A heated blush comes to my cheeks as I take in everything, especially all the fancy-dressed people. I can only imagine the labels and fashion houses being showcased tonight. I try not to let my black dress – purchased at the local mall – feel inferior.

_It isn't clothes which makes a person_, I remind myself. _It is their personal worth_.

With those words ringing in my head and several deep fortifying breaths later, I make my way into the salon and start to mingle.

.

.

A couple of hours later, after several glasses of champagne downed, I am feeling better. More confident. The gold, bubbly drink is really wonderful and goes a long way to shoring up my courage.

The room has become fuller since I arrived; many people are talking, laughing and probably sharing secrets to the universe. They all seem so self-important.

My own arrival must have been too early as most people seemed to have arrived a couple hours after the stated time on the invite. Fashionably late seems as in style as all the shiny dresses the women have on. I wondered how they aren't blinded by the reflection.

Jessica's inane chatter keeps up at a steady stream as people filter in around us.

"Such a tacky dress. Can you imagine wearing such an ugly color as vermillion?" The women standing in our circle giggle at Jessica's remark. I guess she is the ring leader of this tribe. _More like circus_, I think snidely.

My eyes take in who she's talking about, and I somewhat agree. I don't know about the color vermillion, or what it really is, but the orange-red color is sure bold. Quickly, I look away. It puts my black dress into a better perspective.

I bring my flute to my lips and down the rest of my drink, successfully drowning out Jessica and her hen-pecking. Politely, I make my excuses about having to refresh my drink and leave. My head seems to have unclenched from its mental strain.

After retrieving a fresh glass from a passing waiter and waving to several people I somewhat recognize, I run into one of the partners.

Carlisle Cullen, even in his early fifties, is a beautiful man. His blond hair even curls fetchingly around his ears. I can't help but wonder what these people drink and how their DNA is so astounding.

He and my father went to high school together and still keep in contact – well, as much as Charlie talks to anyone. He is a quiet man. After junior year, the Cullen family moved on to greener pastures.

"Mr. Cullen," I greet politely. "This is quite a nice event." My cheeks heat up as I take in what I say and how stupid it sounds. _Way to stay the obvious there, Bella_.

"Thank you, Bella. I sincerely hope you are enjoying yourself."

And strange enough, I know he is being quite genuine. There is something about Carlisle Cullen which makes a person feel comforted and important. Even for someone as low on the totem pole as myself.

"Yes, I am." I smile shyly, cursing my father and his dominate genes. Sometimes I wish I could be more like my out-going mother. So unafraid of life and taking chances. "One can't help but have a nice time in such a nice setting."

As he laughs good-naturedly at my naivety, I feel warmed by his laughter. It is so full and rich. Again, it only does him credit.

"How is your father doing? I haven't the opportunity of speaking to him recently."

"He's good, Mr. Cullen," I mumble awkwardly, still so taken aback being in his presence and him actually taking the time to speak with me, when there are so many people vying for his limited attention. "Still living in Forks and fishing on the weekends."

A twinkly wistful looks comes into Mr. Cullen's eyes. "Many a time your father and I fished on the weekends."

I smile politely, not really sure what to say or make of his wistfulness. Mr. Cullen must see something in my face because he goes on to explain, "I never really knew how to fish and your father thought that such a crime."

This time I do laugh. Charlie is nothing if not predictable. I can imagine his horrified look, even now at someone not knowing how to go fishing.

"'_Well, big city_,' your father first called me, _'I'll just have to teach you. It is a crime what they teach us young people these days.'_"

Embarrassing giggles escape from me as I relish Mr. Cullen's story of Charlie. He seems to have my father's number – knowing him quite well. Even after all these years it seems.

"And just between you and me, Bella, I still don't understand the lure of fishing."

I can't help but share a conspiratorially smile with my boss. "But the stillness of the water and the quietness of the act is something I can relate to."

I give my companion a small smile in understanding. Those were the only things I liked about fishing, too. Often I would just want to put the poor slimy creature back in the water, letting them go. My father said I had too weak of a stomach.

"A man after my own understanding," I joke. "That is about the only thing I can tolerate about fishing, Mr. Cullen."

We both laugh over my father and his love of his sport before taking a drink.

"Please, none of this 'Mr. Cullen' nonsense. Carlisle will quite suffice." I nod as my cheeks become a slow burn. I hate feeling embarrassed and out of my element.

"It may take me a while," I tell him honestly, still not comfortable calling my (for all intent and purposes) boss by his first name.

"That will be fine, Bella. Take all the required time necessary."

Before anything else can be said, someone is waving at Carlisle, trying to get his attention.

An apologetic smile takes over his distinguished face as he waves back. "It seems there is no rest for the weary. Persons to mingle with and niceties to make. Perhaps I should take your father's example and go fishing on a quiet lake. Hmm?"

I feel bad for Mr. Cullen and his now apparent tiredness. I can't even imagine the level of energy he requires to constantly go and never stop mingling. It gives me hives just thinking about it.

"Do enjoy the rest of your evening, Miss. Swan. And please give my fond regards to your father."

"I will, sir. And please tell Mrs. Cullen I say hello."

"Surely, Bella." And with a slight bow, he leaves with his fancy words and impeccable manners. I send a good thoughts up for him, hoping he can also enjoy his evening.

I sigh as the uncomfortable feelings of the evening start to overtake me again. I don't know if I'll ever truly fit in.

I pick up a fresh glass from a roaming waiter and make my way back over to Jessica's group. She may get on my last nerve with her constant gossip and husband shopping (as she puts it), but at least she's a familiar face.

As I near, I make out Angela and her shy smiles. _Thank God_, I can't help but think. _Someone I can actually talk to_.

And funny enough, Angela Webber is even shyer than me, which is saying something.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," I joke as I near her. In her glass is some sort of clear liquid with bubbles. She must be drinking sparkling water. _Something you should soon switch to_, I warn myself.

"Hey Bella. How are you doing? I didn't see you when we first arrived." I turn to my left and see her boyfriend, Ben, speaking with another entry-level lawyer. They started around the same time as me.

"Yeah. I was just roaming around . . . mingling." I roll my eyes playfully. I wonder if she can feel my air quotes.

"Talking to the head-honcho, I see." She wiggles her eye-brows at my influential hobnobbing.

I pretend to raise my chin snottily – as I've seen some of the women doing here, tonight.

"Yes, I'm quite important, you know," I say in my best drawling accent.

We both quietly giggle, trying not to draw too much attention to our silliness.

But as I look up, I take in the sound of the person addressing us; I know we've failed spectacularly.

My cheeks instantly become an alarming shade of red, the likes of which I never felt before. It truly feels as if my skin is on fire.

Standing before me is the most handsome man I've ever seen. TRULY.

"Hello, Angie. You look quite lovely tonight." His voice sounds the like smoothest of silk and my skin reacts accordingly.

His jade-green eyes are quite sincere as he takes in my friend, and her pretty evening dress. Unlike me, Angela actually looks quite beautiful – as if she fits in, despite her shyness.

"And whom might your friend be?" he asks my dark-haired friend, now looking at me.

I can't help but drop my chin in nervousness. This man is too gorgeous and _too something_ for me to handle. His close proximity is doing strange things to my body and heart rate.

"This is Bella. Recently hired on. About the time your holiday started, I think," Angela jokes, which goes straight over my head.

From the corner of my eyes, I can see them sharing a knowing smile from some inside joke. I feel a little sad at that, wishing I could be in on it. Or at least have something only he and I share.

"Bella, this is Edward Cullen. My boss."

Somewhere I find the courage to smile bashfully at him. I try with all my might to will the extreme redness from my cheeks. And not the first time tonight, I'm thankful for the low lights of the room.

"Pleased to meet you, Bella," Edward says, his voice dripping honey as his immaculate hand reaching out to shake mine.

I cringe as I reach out shakily and meet his. I hope he isn't too grossed out by my clammy hands. If all else fails I can always blame it on the condensing glass in my hand – though it really isn't.

"You, too, Mr. Cullen," I mumble embarrassingly. Angela looks at me strangely, as if I have some horrible pimple on the tip of my nose.

"So, you're new to us. Where are you from, originally?" Edward kindly asks. I try and process what he's saying as my brain thinks up ways to be something and everything to him. _Why does he have to be so damned gorgeous_?

"And please, call me Edward. Mr. Cullen is reserved for my father – and he alone." A slight wink crinkles the corner of his eye, giving him even more appeal. Anymore and I just may faint at his feet.

"Um . . . well, thanks, E-Edward." I beg for anything to swallow me up. I don't know how long I can endure this humiliation.

A gracious smile turns his lips, making them look fuller than possible. What I wouldn't give to lick them.

". . . you from?" I hear.

Quickly I shake my head, trying to clear out the mounting fluff. _How is anyone able to function around him_?

"Um, I'm from Forks, Washington. O-Originally," I stutter, hoping I've answered his question correctly. His surprised and grinning face tells me I have.

"You must be Charlie Swan's daughter. My father often speaks of Charlie and their friendship."

For the first time since meeting him, I actually smile. Though I am still mortified beyond belief, I can feel something starting to loosen up. The topic of my father also helps me to feel freer, my tongue less rigid.

"Funny, I was just talking t-to your dad about him." I stutter only once and consider it my achievement of the night. "He was telling me about my dad's antics."

Edward laughing is even better than him speaking. Not unlike his father, when he laughs it takes over his whole body. It seems as if not one part of him is immune to his mirth. His head falls back and his strong jaw is revealed.

His gorgeous neck is just begging for my teeth to sink into. _Stop it, Bella_!

"Yes, I've heard the stories myself," Edward continues. "My favorite is the one with Carlisle falling out of the boat and into the lake after a bass escaped your father's clutches. Supposedly it scared my father right out of the boat and into the water."

This time, my giggles mix with his. Parents are such a source of hilarity for their children.

"My father often says how much he'd like to go back to Washington, at least to visit on an extended vacation." I nod, understand Mr. Cullen's wistfulness.

When I first moved to Forks – after having lived in Arizona with my mother – I didn't like it. I was used to sun and golden sunsets. But after acclimating and getting to know my father again, it somehow became home.

"Tell me, Bella," Edward says, and I have to truly will myself not to faint. His lips caressing my name is true perfection. "What do you miss most of Washington? What did you do for fun?"

And like that, the flood gates of our conversation opens. I find myself telling him about my wacky mother and my reasons for moving to Forks, about my difficult acclimation to Washington, how I felt as if I was always hurting my father's feelings in not having the same interests has him and wanting to be somewhere else.

I tell him about how one day, I woke up one morning and saw the sun shining in my room and wished for it to be cloudy. It was the definitive moment I knew Forks had become my home.

By the end of my story, I feel as if Edward should be charging me money for listening to my woes. Dr. Edward takes it all in stride, joking that he did ask.

"Yes, but not to hear about Bella, her madcap mother and introverted father. I should take my family on the road."

Edward laughs at my dry humor before commiserating.

"There are some in every family, Bella. My father works awfully hard yet wishes for a quiet life in a small town; my mother goes along with his whims, loving him regardless; my sister is a fashion diva with enough clothes to outfit an army; and I'm supposedly my father's clone." He gives me a wry smile. "So you see? We all have our stories."

In the back of my mind, while we continue to talk, I can't help but be happy. Never have I ever connected with someone so easily. We've talked for half an hour, and yet, it seems so effortless, so joyful. My heart beats freely in my chest – as if at any moment it will happily flutter away. The smile parting my lips is one of bliss.

I wonder if everyone at some moment in their life feels such rightness – as if but for one moment the stars are aligned and everything in the universe feels meant to be. Like nothing can ever be wrong again. These are the moments dreams are borne from.

I'm pulled back from my wanderings as the most exquisite smile overtakes Edward's face. This night has been one of surprises for me, but even with all that, the smile now overtaking Edward's face is the most beautiful of them all.

His eyes all but sparkle in the brilliant glow of the city lights. The green of his irises are memorizing. The smile he's sporting all but stretches the length of his jaw as his coppery colored hair falls boyishly into his left eye. His comfortable posture seems to melt even more, as if his own existence has come into alignment.

My heart rate accelerates as I take in everything about him and this new level of contentment, which transforms his beauty into something of fairy tale princes.

"We should do this again, Bella," I hear through the happy ringing in my ears.

_Always_ . . . _Anytime_ . . . _Forever_ . . .

I push through the loudness of my ears and go to answer him. But even before I can say one word, Edward is looking beyond me and over my left shoulder.

The utter elation I started to feel is cracking. _Surely, I put that smile on his face, that easiness in his shoulders, the utter rightness in his universe. Surely, he must feel what I feel_ . . .

"Please, excuse me. Do have a lovely evening, Bella." With one last fleeting grin, as if out of forgetfulness, he brushes by me. His shoulder, touching my arm, sends a deep tingling to the very tips of my fingers.

I can feel a prickling starting behind my eyes and an embarrassing blush starting to overtake my cheeks, again. The rightness I felt seems to have totally left me. I'm left cold and strangely bereft.

And like the emotional masochistic I know myself to be, I turn around and see what has put Edward into such a reassuring state, _a rightfulness state_.

The question turns out to be not _what_, but _who_.

Just when one thinks fate has shown them something exquisitely divine and ethereally gorgeous, it shows them something even more astounding – as hard as that is to believe.

Because standing not twenty feet in front of me is the proof. Sublime, splendid, otherworldly aren't even words strong enough to describe her beauty. For truly she is the most beautiful person I've ever seen. No one has anything on her – not even some overrated Hollywood actress, whose entire career is nothing but the next boring photo after another.

Golden-blonde hair tumbles artistically down her pale neck in big curls. The sides are pulled up and pinned back, showcasing her blindingly beauty cheekbones and violet eyes. _Seriously, who has purple eyes_, I can't help but sadly think. This woman is the epitome of intrinsically unique. How could anyone ever compete with such inspiring awe?

The lavender dress she wears can't even compete with her beauty – _not that anything ever could_, my mind snidely interjects. Flawlessly it matches her eyes, sparkly shoes and glittering diamond on her finger. My watery eyes sadly fall on the three caret diamond on her left ring finger. It is followed with a solid white-gold wedding band.

Married . . . Already taken . . . Never meant . . . Fate, cruel bitch . . . Empty.

All fleeting thoughts as my eyes cloud with tears.

I tell myself to turn away, to leave this forsaken party, but I'm rooted as I watch the perfectly perfect couple in front of me.

Edward's wife finishes up her conversation with whoever she's speaking with and finally notices her approaching husband. _How could she not notice him before_? I ask myself. _He is unforgettable_. _She must be so secure in their shared love_, I answer.

A blinding smile overtakes her overly full lips as she notices her husband coming towards her. A gentle loveliness falls over her features, making her appearance even softer, more approachable.

His lips press tenderly on her forehead as she happily tumbles into his opened embrace. _Who the hell wouldn't be happy to fall onto Edward and his gorgeous body_?

Slowly, as if they have all the time in the world, he trails his lips from her forehead to her waiting lips, his finger under her chin, lifting her face to his.

For several moments they kiss, entranced in a world all their own. Not even God himself would intervene in such complete purity.

I feel deep trenches of jealousy and envy eating away at me. All the champagne I've drank sits too heavily in my stomach, threatening to make a reappearance.

How can life be so unfair? So unbalanced? Their beauty together should be enough to implode their world, having them constantly competing to one-up the other. But they aren't, and I'm meanly and spitefully wishing it to be so.

A wistful sigh is blown into my ear, pulling me from such fallen depths within. I sneakily wipe the few tears from my cheeks. My eyes close as I will all the negativity from me. I'm not this spiteful person, and within the course of this evening I'm proven horribly wrong.

"They are so in love. Aren't they beautiful together?" Angela innocently remarks. The happiness for her boss is so heavy in her tone. I exhale slowly before turning to face her.

"Yeah . . . beautiful." I try to infuse some believability into my voice, but fail. Angela pulls her visage from the too perfect couple gazing at each other and puts it on me.

"Bella? Are you okay?" Her worry only adds to my guilt. Angela is too kind for her own good. It makes me feel tainted standing next to her.

Before I can answer, more tears escape my eyes and a clear understanding comes into her eyes.

_She knows_, I sadly think. _Just great_. _Here comes the pity_.

And I'm not wrong.

She grabs my hand and leads me around the room to the entrance doors of the Salon ball room. We step out, but a small crack is left open.

"I thought you knew, Bella," Angela consoles me.

_This is beyond ridiculous_, I think. I just met this man and already I'm being comforted – as if I'm some jilted lover.

"Knew what?" I pretend not to know, but I can see the truth in her eyes. My foolish attempt to brush this off won't work.

"That Edward was _married_, Bella." Her forthrightness is enough to make me wince. Hearing the worried 'married' spoken aloud sounds dirty in my ears.

Edward shouldn't be _married_. We should have a chance to see where we could go. I felt the connection. It wasn't some made up fantasy on my part.

"He and Rosalie are expecting their first child. I'm surprised Carlisle wasn't gushing about the upcoming event. It is all he can speak about."

A soft smile overtakes Angela's lips, and I want nothing more than to smack it off.

Why must she twist the knife even more?

Married . . . Pregnant . . . Expecting his first child . . . Perfectly flawless wife. She doesn't even have the graciousness to look fat and bloated. No, she looks divine. Ethereally glowing.

I say nothing as I look back into the Salon, through the slit in the opened door. As if fate hasn't beaten me enough tonight, I now have the perfect view of the expecting couple.

As if from a modern Norman Rockwell painting, Edward and his Rosalie exhibit the ideal portrait.

He stands behind her, arms around her waist and hands resting on her still-flat stomach. His face is tucked into the crease of her slender, pale neck as if he is hiding his laughter or simply smelling her. His hair falls over his face and on her healthily flushed cheek.

The ripe pinkness of her skin is so much prettier than mine. Where she looks fresh and unspoiled, I usually look like an overcooked lobster.

The glow of the city being viewed through the wall to wall windows rounds out the complete picture of them. It almost pales in comparison to their seamlessness. Almost spoiling the beauty of their love and connection.

Picture perfect is all I can think in reference to them. As if she was made for him and him for her.

.

.

_("It's meeting the man of my dreams . . . and, then I'm meeting his beautiful wife. And isn't it ironic? Don't you think_?")

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* * *

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Author's Notes: This is part one of two. I had a lot of fun writing this little story and it's been such a while since I've written anything from Bella's POV. I am quite out of practice.

One day I was listening to "Ironic" by Alanis Morissette and one line got my creative juices flowing. This was the effect and the last line in this chapter was the cause. Anyhow, hope you like. The last part should be posted next week and it will feature Edward's POV. My Achilles heel, as you know (given how much I complain about it . . . hehe). If you have the time, please review. I'd **love** to know your thoughts! Hope everyone is well.

Hugs!


	2. Between Loving Hearts

**Between Loving Hearts**

"_No words are necessary between two loving hearts."_—_Unknown_

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"_I dropped a tear in the ocean, and whenever they find it I'll stop loving you, only then."_—_Unknown_

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Edward's POV

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As I hold my wife tenderly against my body and take in the city around us, I can't help wondering how it is I am so lucky while others are not. It seems unfair and difficult to swallow at times. But even with my brooding and sometimes negative thoughts, I can't help but be so wholly grateful for the life I have and live.

My life is busy, full of drama and sometimes unreal, but it is just that – mine.

My parents are still disgustingly in love; my sister (though frightfully spoiled and materialistic) is happy and seemingly fulfilled; my in-laws are people I love and respect; and my job is spent in the company of my father and excellent law partners.

But even above all of this, I have the most exquisite wife. Make no mistake, Rosalie Hale Cullen is never easy and often keeps me on my toes. She is spirited, untamable and loves to argue. She has a tough exterior and can be quite vain.

Yet, even through all this: her love, her loyalty, her passion for life, her intelligence, her tremendous beauty – both inward and outward – and her utter devotion to our little growing family eclipses anything negative.

The love we found, share, cultivate and protect is the reason to which I live and breathe each day of my life.

While growing up, Rosalie was several years younger than me, and therefore, a right pain in my ass. Often she'd want to tag along while I wanted to be away from her. Middle school and high school passed in a blur. With Rosalie being three years my junior, she hadn't _really_ registered on my radar.

Of course, I noticed her increasing beauty, and how many people often stared at her, but it didn't _really_ mean anything to me. It wasn't until her senior year of high school and my sophomore year of college that I _really_ noticed her. She about damn near knocked me on my ass with her beauty.

It had been quite a while since I'd saw her – my life revolving around school, internships at other firms (besides my father's. I wasn't for nepotism thus had to prove myself), and trying to enjoy life in the little free time I had.

But when I saw her, over the two week vacation I allowed myself that summer, she bowled me over. Edward Cullen was done for, and no other girl could ever get rid of the itch she created inside me. _No one_ could compare. She was Rosalie Hale: the irritating girl-come-woman whom I had quite helplessly fallen for.

It wasn't until the start of law school and her freshman year in college that we started to date.

Funnily enough, she knew of my impure intentions towards her while she was still in high school and often liked to tease me. Flirted we did – excessively and playfully, but I wouldn't peruse her until she graduated.

It wasn't her age, because Rosalie was mature beyond her generation, but the fact she needed to still experience things I couldn't give to her. I never wanted to take away her youth, her chance to be young and carefree.

During the beginning of her freshman year of college and my starting law school, she changed my mind. It wasn't all that difficult. After seeing college boys lusting after her, only wanting between her thighs, I changed my opinion.

_See, it wasn't difficult on her part_.

Into the second month of our being a couple, Rosalie shyly confessed her dreams to me. Though she wanted to finish school and attain her degree in Biology, being a mother and wife was what her heart really longed for – often cried out for.

Having the example of her parent's happy marriage (not to mention my parents) excelled her want.

She wanted marriage. With me. Always. _Our_ life. _Our_ happiness. _Our _children. _Our_ love.

The girl had done me in with that softly spoken confession. I was ready to propose to her, but I still remembered her father's warning and my father's cautions. She was still young and I was just starting Law School.

The day I graduated, I proposed. I had nothing left to wait for, and I knew she was beyond anxious. I loved her more than anything . . . more than my own life.

We were young, and probably impulsive, but the heart wants what it wants.

On the beachfront property of my parent's New England vacation home, I proposed. The sky had been heavy with stars, shining millions of years only for us. With tears coursing down her beautifully flushed cheeks and a slight smack to my shoulder for taking so long to ask, she said 'yes'.

My life had felt utterly complete in such a moment.

But after our low-key wedding and a year into our marriage, Rosalie threw me another curve ball. She proved to me once again that life was full of complete moments.

The confession of her expecting pregnancy had all but stunned me stupid.

We were having a child: half her and half me.

_We were having a child! Wonders never ceased to exist_.

"_You do realize he or she will be quite the high-maintained, self-inspecting child, right. With my bouts of being maudlin and you being vain, our child is quite doomed," I joked, after regaining the ability to talk._

_A roguish grinned had stole over my lips at her affronted look. She was so beautiful. My love for her shot so high, as it did when I often gazed at her and simply became overwhelmed from the rightfulness of my life. _

"_Edward!" she exclaimed. I loved when she was most spirited. It made her all but glow. "Our child will be terribly magnificent. As you very well know."_

_I pulled her finger, poking at my chest, and brought it to my lips. I kissed each of her dainty fingers before leaving my lips resting on the palm of her hand. _

_We stared at each other, lost in a world of dreams come true and finally realized. We were going to parents. Me . . . a father. Unreal!_

_Tears began to pool in her lovely violet eyes. I wished for our child to receive her eyes. They were so exquisite, so expressive. _

"_As I truly know, love," I finally repeated her words. Because anything representing my wife, would be magnificent. _

"_Love you, husband," she whispered, caressing my face with the hand which wasn't still pressed to my lips. _

"_Love you, my beautiful wife," I murmured into her hand, wanting her to feel the words breathed on to her skin. _

_When our lips finally met and then our bodies celebrated the creation of life we made together, I couldn't have imagined anything more wonderful. Angels could keep their heaven; I had found my in the warmth and love my wife and I created together. _

Yes, our life isn't all roses and sunshine, as we argue frequently, but our love supersedes it all. Hell, I think Rose picks fights just to have amazing sex with her handsome husband.

And now with my face tucked into the crease of my wife's neck, I can't help but take her in: her lovely scent, her body tucked in to mine, her golden hair tickling my cheeks, the feel of our child under my hands safely protected in her body, her fragility.

"How was your doctor's appointment?" I ask, wanting to know everything. I feel terrible for not being there. Sometimes meetings cannot be rescheduled. And thankfully, I have a wife who understands. Though sometimes she likes to rub it in.

"It was ever so wonderful, Edward," she sighs blissfully. "We were able to hear the heartbeat. So strong. So solid, darling. Just like you."

I kiss her neck, needing to feel her skin and the pulse which keeps her living with me. "Just like her mother," I counter. All the strength our child possesses comes from her. My wife is stronger than anything I know.

"Hmm, perhaps," she jokes. I pull her even closer to me while wrapping my arms around her more securely. "Both of our mothers cried, of course."

I can't help but laugh at this. To say our mothers are happy to be grandparents is quite the understatement. Sometimes it seems as if their joy is more than ours. Even my father is ready to burst from his excitement.

"And you didn't cry?" She snorts. It is quite cute.

"That is beside the point, darling. Waterworks are all but required of me."

"Of course, love. I wouldn't expect any less." She goes to push me away, playfully trying to get out of my encircling arms, but I won't allow her to.

Cute giggles escape from her parted, painted lips as we both continue looking out at the view of our beautiful city.

"You see the Wrigley Clock Tower there, love?" I ask, quickly removing my hand from her belly and pointing to what I'm referring. The view of it is quite spectacular from here.

Her mirth settles as she takes in the tower and what I'm pointing to.

"Of course, Edward," she whispers. "What about it, sweetheart?" I do love when she calls me this. It is rare.

"See the time it reads?"

"10:31 p.m."

I slowly kiss her neck, working my way to the front of her collarbone visible through her dress. "W-Why is that special?" she asks, her breath catching in her lungs. I've reached her weak spot.

"It's special because it's our little one's bed time. You know how you must rest, my love. It is imperative to your health."

She starts to giggle coyly, knowing what I mean and how much I want her; how much I want to feel her naked skin on mine, our scents combined, our breathes mingled, her lips swollen from mine. I wanted her badly.

"Let's leave, Edward," she rasps. Her breathing is almost as shallow as my own.

I place one last lingering kiss to her skin, knowing it will be at least a half hour before I can taste more of her. I should have booked a hotel room. But even with the convenience of being at a hotel, I want her in our bed, at home, where we made our growing child.

As we untangle ourselves, unconcerned with the show we've put on for everyone here tonight, we make our way out of the ballroom. As my sweet wife goes to say goodbye to our parents, I stop her.

"No time, love," I say. She can read the neediness and naked hunger for her in my eyes. If I don't sink into her soon, feel her wrapped completely around me, I'll simply wither away. Dramatic, but painfully true.

"Okay," she whispers. I can see the longing reflected in her eyes. Our desire is enough to consume us both.

Without even stopping to gather our coats, I pull us through the doors of the Grand Salon and to the bank of elevators. We pass several people on our hurried way, but I pay them no mind. I am too consumed with my wife and what I need from her.

Like a good boy, I keep my hands mostly to myself on the elevator ride down, and as I wait to collect my car from the valet. Thankfully the car is sufficiently heated when it pulls up. I give a huge tip to the valet for his thoughtfulness in heating up my car.

It also doesn't escape my notice how often they stare at my wife – all but drooling dogs. Some would think me constantly jealous of all the men staring at her. There are some men who can get me very worked up, but most of the time I find it flattering. My wife is exquisite, and thankfully, they will never know where her true beauty lies: her heart, soul and in the love she cherishes the most.

Once we are settled, I make our way towards our house, being vigilant and cautious in my driving.

_Soon_, I tell my overactive libido. _We will soon be in the warmest heaven imaginable_.

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.

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Our kissing is at quite a frenzy pace as we tumble into our bedroom. Thankful we have no coats to shed. My feet are already stripped from my shoes, with my socks hanging on half-hazardly.

My wife is quick to strip me of my suit jacket. It falls forgotten on the carpeted floor. Somewhere I can hear Armani crying from such mistreatment. However, the urgent hands of my wife cupping me deliciously make every thought dissipate.

I fist my hands in her tangled hair, pulling her head back so I can feast at her mouth. It is warm, sweet and waiting for me to devour. Her lips are already slightly swollen and chapped from me. The sight of her already so ravaged, with nothing but her rumpled dress on does so many wicked things to me.

"Damn it, Rose," I moan into her panting mouth, "You're so fucking hot. What you do to me, love. _What you do to me_ . . ."

She whimpers so beautifully as I push my tongue into her mouth, needing for her to suck on it. This is a dance we know well, and constantly perfect.

As our mouths continue to work in sync, kissing, nipping and sucking at each other, our hands travel the length of each other's body.

With patience I know not, I peel the straps from her goldenly tanned shoulders and push it down until her dress is pooling around her belly.

Her chest is deeply heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Unfortunately I have other plans. Without caution, I drop to my knees as I start to kiss at her partially covered breasts. Exquisitely slow, I pull her strapless bra off her nipples and replace it with my lips.

Her hands grab painfully at my hair, but it only pushes me on, all but demanding I swallow each of her nipples. My teeth nip hard at them, knowing how much she likes the pain with her pleasure. Her lusty whimpers are enough to make me almost spill.

After sucking her raw, I move down her belly, stopping where our child rests. I am most reverent as I place my puffy lips over her. I place two kisses – one for her and one for Rosalie.

We may not know the sex of our baby, but I cannot help but refer to it as a girl. I want her to be just like my wife, for she is the most wonderful example imaginable.

"Daddy loves you, baby," I humbly whisper, wanting for my child to feel secure in my voice and love.

I look up at the shining of my Rose and become enthralled with her beauty. Her nipples are still hard and dark pink from my attention, her hair is mussed, her eyes watery and her smile sublime. I fucking love this woman more than life itself.

I can't help but wrap my arms around her torso and place the side of my face on her belly. The need to be tender, to all but worship her is fierce, burning so brilliantly inside me. Some would feel vulnerable with such utter longing and devotion, but I only feel fulfilled.

"Love me, Edward," I hear rumbled through the vibrations of her skin.

I lift my head and look into the glorious face of my love.

With softness, she urges me to my feet, takes my hand and leads me to our bed. Plump pillows and a white-down comforter await us.

When we stop at the foot of our bed, I raise my hands to finish undressing my wife, but she slowly shakes her head.

Teeth nip into her bottom lip as she pushes her dress down from her hips to the floor. The beautiful lavender dress pools listlessly at her feet as her frilly thong soon joins it. Her fingers are shaking as she unhooks her bra and drops it unthinkingly. Our eyes are too caught up in each other, studying each other too hungrily to care for such trivial things.

Standing before me, splendidly naked and so achingly lovely is my beguiling wife. No matter how much or how often we have sex or I use my hands and tongue on her body, I will never get used to it. Every crevice, every contour of her figure, is for my eyes alone.

And as she grows our child in her body and it starts to really become noticeable, I will wantonly get to know the changes, worthily kissing each strength mark her body will obtain. I look forward to such a time.

Her fingers unbuttoning my shirt, striping off my tie pulls me from my future longing.

"What are you imagining, husband?" Rose asks in between nips and kisses to my bare shoulders and chest. I push my fingers into her tangled hair and allow them to become lost in the golden disarray.

"You, wife. Your body soon heavy with our child. How glorious you are and will always be to me. How my lips will worship every inch of your swollen stomach. You riding me in fucking rapture. You, wife," I finish.

Rose stops kissing my chest, staring at me with such devotion, such painful love. Her nimble fingers make quick work of my dress trousers and boxer briefs.

Foreplay is now out the window. The desire we feel, the utter want I feel sizzling my veins is too much to withstand. I bit my bottom lip, groaning as I watch my wife sliding naked on to our bed, backing up to the mount of pillows.

With shaky control, I follow her progression, not letting more than a foot of space between us as she lies fully on the bed, waiting for me to fill her completely.

She is all golden skin, tousled hair, dewy-eyed perfection. There is only a slight bulge to her belly, and I find it so hot, so fucking desirable. The fact she has something of ours, growing so preciously inside of her is the ultimate turn on.

Unreservedly, I spread her legs out, pushing her knees to the mattress. She cutely whines at my slow treatment, as my fingers glide over her silky, sweaty skin.

My lips kiss at her calves, her knees, each thigh, paying special attention to her left one, knowing how much she loves my tongue and bites there.

"I love you," I mumble, as I finally reach between her spread thighs.

"Hurry, Edward. Need you," she beautifully whimpers, pushing her bottom from off the bed and into my face. "Kiss me there, sweetheart."

And with such reverences I cave at the pet name. It is my weakness – her saying 'sweetheart' in such a scratchy, whimpering tone.

It doesn't take me long to get into a desirable groove, working my tongue, fingers and lips in sync. Her sticky wetness coats my lips and face as I lick and eat as much as possible. From front to back, back to front, I make sure to cover every inch of her with my mouth.

Rose isn't one to take it lying down. With each pass over her parted lower lips and with my tongue pushing into her, she buries her hands in my hair while raising her hips, begging for me to take her harder with my tongue, to go as deep as possible.

And when she thinks she can take no more, and is ready to tumble over, I softly bite her, allowing my girl to fall. Her high whimpers and calls of my name are glorious music to my ears. My fingers couldn't even match the music on my piano of my wife's rapturous cries.

I slowly continue to lick her as she comes down, shuddering every now and then from an aftershock of her pleasure.

"No more, baby," she whines, shaking her head from side to side. However, I know what she wants. Gently she pulls at my hair, trying to displace my face from between her thighs.

Caving, I give one last kiss to her soft folds before replacing my lips on her panting mouth. Some may think it gross, but my girl loves to taste herself on my lips and tongue. It isn't her taste that she likes, but the act and how intimate it is to her.

We kiss blissfully slow, spreading her wetness from my face to hers, into her mouth and onto her tongue. Her hand sneaks in between our bodies and onto my cock. I wince hotly in her ear as she runs her fingernails on the underside. Like my girl, I also like some pain mixed with sex. It only adds to the thrill.

Her hand soon wraps around me and starts a bruising pace. The friction is a little too hot and a little too rough, but I love every fucking minute. It's like taking a too-hot shower, knowing how overheated you'll become after, but still not caring. My breathes soon become heaving pants as I lay on top of my wife, allowing my hips to push into hers as she works my cock with her fingers.

"Little more, love," I grunt, knowing how close she is to pushing me over.

And when I think her hand will be sore and my cock burned, I pull from her fingers. With a single thrust I bury myself in my wife.

I groan painfully as her tightness wraps around me, blankets me, warms me from inside, out. Nothing could ever be compared to this feeling. And truly there are no words to describe, for they've all been said before.

Fuck yes, she is warm, _tight_, velvety and so gloriously wet, but above it all, she is mine. Mine. Mine. And I am hers. Hers. Hers.

Once she becomes acclimated to me, I start to move, no longer being able to hold still.

Soon, I am moving too fast, needing so much friction that it is enough to drive me insane. Her nails deliciously score down my back, into my ass, in between my cheeks, urging me to take her even harder.

I try to be mindful of our child, but even that soon leaves my mind as my writhing wife throws her right leg over my shoulder and allows me to go balls deep.

Grunts, moans, delicious whimpers mingle so beautifully together. Our breaths fan over the other's skin, only adding more heat. Our bodies are sticky, but glide smoothly against each other. My skin feels raw and sinfully scorched. I know Rose's nail tracks will sting my back for days to come.

Back and forth we give, pushing into each other, onto each other. Simply when I think I can give no more, take no more, be inside her any deeper than I already am, I bend over and bite her nipple, knowing it will send her reaching for her rapture like nothing else will.

Like clockwork, my girl arches her back, claws in between my crack trying to push me deeper, whimpers her bliss and allows herself to go beyond the stars she's seeing behind her eyelids.

As she clinches me, pulling me in so impossibly deep, I follow her into the depths of our love, our combined adoration.

My eyes slam closed as I spill so deep into her. If not pregnant, I know she would have been tonight, especially with how deep I am. For, I don't know where she begins and I end. We are too interwoven.

I slowly chant her name as I continue to push into her, shaking happily with each reverberation which rolls through me and into her.

When I can move no longer and feel as if my muscles have atrophied, I slump down, but make sure to keep my weight mostly on my arms.

Rosalie starts to whimper as I go to remove my cock from her. Her arms become like vices over my back as she pulls my sweaty body closer to hers.

"Stay, Edward. I want to still feel you in me."

I push myself back into her, trying to stay as deep as possible, and breathing heavily each time she clamps down on me. Damn, my girl is sin personified.

I bury my face into her neck, my favorite spot (beside on her breast), and lightly suck on her sticky skin. She is both sweet and salty, and so luscious.

With my free hand I gently caress her left breast, loving the feel of the weight and softness.

"Know how much I love you, Rose?" I ask between suckles to her neck.

She moans in reply and I can't help but laugh. We both allow our happiness and slight mirth to mingle with our lazy pleasure.

Languidly, she wraps her legs around my waist and locks her feet at my lower back. I wince a little as she catches one of her made scratches, but soon all but vibrate as the pain sends delightful tingles along my spine.

"So much, darling." And damn doesn't my wife know the truth of my adulation for her.

"Fuck yes, love. And then even more." At my dirty word she grinds into me. It is not often I curse, but in the bedroom, when I lose all control of myself, the filthy words simply flow from my lips, turning my wife into mush.

"More, Edward," she whispers, hotly into my ear before biting my lobe. "More, baby."

I can't help but groan, trying to regain my strength and please my goddess of a wife. The woman is insatiable.

That thought makes me grin. And I can't help but think how much I love my life.

"Give me a few moments, wife. Your husband does need a little recovery time."

I playfully bite at her neck before blowing air into her ear. She wiggles under me, trying to get away from my silly antics. Her laughter is the balm to my soul.

I pull back and study my out-of-breath wife. She is the very essence of me. Sometimes I try to wonder how much I can love her and how it can even grow. And when I think I have an answer or a handle on my adulation for her, something proves me wrong, and I fall again so hopelessly to her. Each time is divine and awe-inspiring.

I think about my life and how different it can be. I could have fallen in love with someone else. I could have made a life with someone else. And I'm sure it would have been good.

But then I can't help but wonder how much happiness or how much utter ecstasy I would have missed with not having Rosalie Hale in my world. The very center of my universe.

To which ever fate, deity or chance in life I own my in-articulating happiness to, I would thank it every day. Because as I stare down at my wife (lying under me, smiling so freely and still connected in the most intimate way) and feel everything she brings to our world, I am undone. I have no words, no eloquent prose, no anything to express my emotions.

I bring my body down on to hers, feeling her warm skin on mine. I reverently press my lips to her, taking _everything_ my girl offers in return.

Inadequately I tell her, "I love you," knowing it is never (nor will it ever be) enough to express everything bursting brilliantly within my soul.

And knowingly, thankfully, blissfully, she says it back. "I love you."

But the true, unspoken words of our souls become articulated by our bodies as we take each other to places only we can reach with one another. Our own rapture.

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Author's Notes: The End.

Wow, that was something difficult for me to write. Not the overwhelming love these two feel for each other, but the lemon scene. I am so bad at them, but hopefully this one didn't suck too much. No pun intended.

My greatest hope is that you come away feeling their love, knowing how beautiful and enduring love can be. I can't write fluff to save my life, but I think this is the closet I can ever come to it.

Anyhow, if you have the time, could you please review! I'd simply love to know your thoughts and/or concerns about the story. Was the lemon scene terrible? Did you have a favorite line/scene from the story? All feedback welcomed. Thanks to ALL those who Reviewed, and added this story to alerts. You amaze me!

Well, until next time, my darling readers! Loves and hugs aplenty!


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